Bob Saget on 'Dirty Daddy'

Bob Saget will appear at Printers Row Lit Fest to talk about his book, "Dirty Daddy."

Bob Saget will appear at Printers Row Lit Fest to talk about his book, "Dirty Daddy."

(Natalie Brasington photo)

Kevin Nance

Bob Saget on the two sides -- clean and dirty -- of his comedic sensibilities

Because of his role as a single dad on the long-running ABC sitcom "Full House" and his concurrent hosting of "America's Funniest Home Videos," Bob Saget seemed squeaky clean to millions of Americans — especially those who had never seen his sometimes raunchy stand-up routines in Las Vegas or comedy clubs around the country. But with the 2005 release of "The Aristocrats," featuring top comedians telling increasingly over-the-top versions of an unusually filthy showbiz joke, the public was startled to realize that there was more to Saget — whose own rendition of the joke achieved new heights, or maybe depths, of debauchery — than they knew.

In his memoir "Dirty Daddy: The Chronicles of a Family Man Turned Filthy Comedian," Saget describes his two-track career, along with the details of his formation as a young comic, guided in part by his own very funny father. Printers Row Journal caught up with the author, 59 for a phone interview from his home in Los Angeles. Here's an edited transcript of our chat.

Q: When "The Aristocrats" came out in 2005, I knew of you mostly from your role on "Full House" and as host of "America's Funniest Home Videos," neither of which prepared me for your stand-up comedy, which is pretty raw. I suspect a lot of people around the country had the same reaction: "Wow, I didn't realize there was this other Bob Saget."

A: When I started doing stand-up at the age of 17, working at clubs around the country like the Comedy Store, my act was probably PG-13, sometimes R-rated. I dropped some F-bombs. And then the funnier I got, I tended to go a little bluer, not out of intent, really, but out of the fact that that was the climate. I was hanging out with Richard Pryor, Robin Williams, Eddie Murphy, and all those people I looked up to were doing a certain kind of comedy that I found very funny. So there was a kind of osmosis. It was still my voice, the voice of the sick jokes my dad told me as a kid. Then, after eight years of struggling, I got into a Richard Pryor movie, "Critical Condition," and I played a young doctor who cursed a fair amount. Then I got "The Morning Program" on CBS, where I was restrained by being a morning talk-show host and got fired from that for being too hot for morning TV. And a few months later I was cast in "Full House," and I was very happy to play that part. But the guy wasn't a curser; he was a father. And then, a year later, I got the video show, so that was family-oriented. And both shows were in the top 10 off and on, and I got profiled as, "This is what that guy does."

Q: But you were also doing stand-up comedy during all that.

A: Yes, and that's when people were shocked. I'd be in some casino in Vegas and I'd just do my comedy as I had always done, and people would go, "Wait a minute! That's not the guy from the thing!" Then when both (TV) shows ended, I directed for about four years. I did a feature called "Dirty Work." I did three TV movies, and I did some episodic television. But I never stopped doing stand-up. And I did some hour specials. In the first one, "That Ain't Right," I used an F-bomb as a rimshot, basically. I was in front of an NYU audience, and I adapted to the crowd, in my own mind. "The Aristocrats" came out around then, and I had a guest spot on "Entourage." They were all bent to turn the family guy upside down. I had nothing to do with that mentality.

With "The Aristocrats," I had auditioned for Paul Provenza, who directed it with Penn Jillette, when I was very young. The joke itself is funny, it made me laugh. It's basically about how desperate people are to get into show business. The saddest part is that they're doing all these terrible things in an agent's office. How low will people go to show that they've got talent? So when they asked me to do the movie, I said, "I don't even know the joke." Paul and Penn said, "Just tell it." They cut themselves out of the audio because they were egging me on — "Come on, Bob, come on." It was like knowing you have a filthy sense of humor, but you just don't exercise it, because there's nowhere to parlay that into anything you'd be proud of or make income from. But after I signed the release for it to be used — because I realized I couldn't stop laughing, watching it, because it was so wrong — a lot of the stuff that was offered to me was really strange, like a coked-out sitcom guy who wouldn't come back to the set because he was so out of his mind.

Q: It's like Betty White these days. We think of her as that nice lady from "The Golden Girls," but then when she goes blue — going on "Saturday Night Live" to talk about her muffins, and so forth — it's even funnier.

A: Yeah. It's not something you plan. And sometimes it doesn't work. Sometimes a writer will say, "Hey, will you try this?" And I'm like, "Come on — how many times do I have to turn my career on its ear?" But I was always a pretty acerbic guy my whole career. I mean, I was acting when I played that part on "Full House." (Laughs.) Acting means that the person playing the role is not the person that the role is. But people didn't believe that, which is just strange to me. I've compared it to Hannibal Lecter. He doesn't eat people, you know — Anthony Hopkins doesn't do that. But somehow when people see me, they think I should be a dad who's a clean freak. I guess I did the job well.

Q: In the book, you seem to have mixed feelings about "Full House." On the one hand you say you're glad you did it, you're proud of it. But on the other hand you say the role was two-dimensional, and at times you didn't even know why you were saying the lines — except that you were putting your kids through college.

A: Well, at this point in time, there are no mixed feelings. It's just great that it happened, it's wonderful. But when you're going through that … actors complain whether they're working or they're not working. That particular show, it was overwhelming how much the audience regarded the show. It wasn't beloved at first — it went through a few years of disdain — but so many people adored it, you'd have to be a fool to regret you were on it. It's like, wow, I actually was part of something that really made a lot of people feel good. The show wasn't made for cynics, your hipster buddies; it was made for 9-year-old girls. There was something about it that was pure and very beautiful. It's true that there were frustrating things about playing the role, but anybody who gets really frustrated over doing a television show and taking a big check and getting to work with nice people really should seek another form of employment.

Q: You do describe yourself as feeling constrained by people's perception of you in connection with that show — which made stand-up a kind of release for you.

A: You know, when Robin Williams was making one of his serious movies, he'd shoot all day and then go do comedy at night. Stand-up is an outlet that allows you to have the mast of your own ship when you need it. I would always check in and make sure I did something that maybe went too far, just to keep myself balanced.

Q: You make the point in the book that a lot of comedy comes from pain. We've been told that for years, and now with Robin Williams' suicide, I guess we're starting to believe it. The heavy stuff in life triggers this chaotic, anarchic sort of humor, which is a way of evading the pain.

A: Yeah, that's true. The premise of "Full House" was that my character's wife had died in a car accident.

Q: And in your case, you had a lot of people in your family who died young. You had twin siblings who died a few days after they were born. And you had two sisters who died in middle age. Aunts, uncles, cousins. You lay a fair amount of death and destruction on us early on in the book.

A: Right. Sorry about that. But the pictures were good. (Laughs.) Everything was fine until I was about 9, and then everything started happening. My sisters, one died of a brain aneurysm, the other of scleroderma, which often affects women in the prime of their lives. When I go to Chicago on June 6 (for Printers Row Lit Fest), I'll have spent the night raising money for the Scleroderma Research Foundation, which supports people with the disease and tries to find a cure.

Q: A lot of your comedy comes from your dad, who, once you got to be around 16 years old, began to share with you certain aspects of his humor that he kept to himself earlier in your life.

A: Yeah, early on it was just silly humor, but later on he decided it was time to pull out the big guns and let his son hear what manly comedy was like (think anatomical humor). He was also exposing me to Jack Benny and variety performers and movie actors that were his favorites: Harold Lloyd, Charlie Chaplin. He was just a big lover of comedy. In fact he could have been a comedian, had his life not been trying to raise a family in the meat business. Meat or comedy, there's really nothing in between. (Laughs.)

Q: You also talk a lot in the book about comics who influenced and helped you in your career.

A: I was working at the Comedy Store in La Jolla and Rodney Dangerfield came in. He came up to me and said, "Hey man" — I guess I was 24, 25 — "you're really good on 'The Merv Griffin Show.'" He said he was in town to dry out at a spa, but it wasn't working. "I can't do it, man. No booze, no coke, no pot, no pills — can't do it." We hung out for the weekend in this condo in La Jolla, talking comedy. And I became friendly with him after that. He did a young comedians special on HBO, and he put me on it. I was on right before Sam Kinison, who ended up blowing the roof off the room. … But I stayed close with Rodney through the years, and even officiated at his funeral. He was an unusual cat and gave me some good advice once in a while. I was working 80, 90 hours a week on "Full House" and the video show, totally exhausted, and I went over to see Rodney at the Hilton in LA. And I said, "It just feels like I'm not getting my own comedy voice out, and I don't know what to do." And he just looked at me and said, "You know, man, you don't know (expletive)." Which I took to mean, "You may think you want to go on to other things, but for now, stay with what's working, and appreciate it."

Kevin Nance is a Chicago-based freelance writer and photographer. Follow him @KevinNance1.